I was set adrift on my posting schedule by an unexpected discovery, and a period of deep reflection. I’ll be posting again more regularly, and less cryptically.
“Plain clarity is better than ornate obscurity.”
“Some authors overdo the stage directions; they elaborate them quite beyond necessity; they spend so much time & take up so much room in telling us how a person said a thing and how he looked and acted when he said it that we get tired and wish he hadn’t said it at all.”
– Mark Twain.
Aging changes the difficulties settings in one’s life.
As I get older and start to reflect more, I understand just how complicated it can be to try to fix some things that went wrong.
Trying to find a way to a conversation that could start the healing process becomes completely obscured with the passage of time.
My body is a landscape of scars I animate through ferocity of will to push through the pain.
I believe my relationship with my adoptive father changed in my eyes when he threw me across a river in the ‘south hills.’
We lived in Twin Falls, Idaho at the time, and I’ve tried to recall exactly how old I was… I suspect I was 11, I believe this was in the summer of 1985.
Our church had coordinated a forest retreat, held in the area colloquially known as the south hills. In any other part of the country, these would be called mountains. Idahoans pride themselves on being of a sturdier stock than the rest of the country (except, perhaps, Alaskans) and the attitude toward these smaller mountains was that they were ‘no Sawtooths.’ When I make these references, I want to stress that these are attitudes I absorbs unknowningly, that the quotes could have been said by any of the adult men in my life at that time, and that I was a compulsive eavesdropper. I use quotes to distinguish the phrasing, which I do recall quite clearly, even if those who uttered these statements are otherwise forgotten.
I am at times relctant to move forward with explaining to people what happened –Continue reading “The River in the South Hills”
I remain a subjective, at times compulsive, narrator in this story.
Unlike a true non-fiction book, by its very nature my story is somewhat fictionalized. I myself reside as an identity infictively resonating within a governmental institutional practice – my status is functionally different than that of the non-adopted, and as with other closed-file adoptees I have more in common with those in the Federal Witness Protection program. I do not know for sure that these memories are not all of the same thing, or metaphors for some completely different experience altogether. And for many people who are adoptees, that positioning can be much more problematic than my own.Continue reading “Subjective Narrator”
We are adrift within the reflections of our best selves.
When I discovered the internet, it was young. I was young. The world I inhabited felt larger as I processed the experience of dialing a long-distance number and listening to the modem handshake with the bbs on the other end of the line. There were a multitude of experiences available with a few keystrokes – countless kbs of textfiles to download and peruse – and an economy that encouraged uploads of original materials.
The internet wasn’t the bbs I dialed, it was us, downloading from one space and uploading to another, generating pockets of pooled and collective recorded thoughts, experiences, techniques. To me, it appeared to be a kind of life.
Years earlier I’d read about A-life, an early simulator of artificial life, and the still images of that software formed the backbone of how I visualized the internet as it grew. Continue reading “The Problem with Mirrors”